Residuum
by Alory Shannon
Summary: “Why.” “Why?” “Why doesn’t this bother you.”  It should, is the implication, the thinly veiled undertone, and she understands what he wants. Sandcest drabble.


_A/N: This was a gift fic for a good friend. I'm not really a Sandcest shipper, but this drabble was sort of a way of proving to myself that yes, I really can write ANY pairing if I put my mind to it._

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**residuum**_ - n. something remaining after removal of a part_

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Gaara has a habit of staring--a habit which often makes others uncomfortable, though apparently he fails to notice this--and at the moment, his steady, unblinking gaze has settled itself on the activity in the street outside the Kazekage's Tower. Paperwork covers his desk, lies scattered across the floor where it was blown by a particularly forceful gust of wind, but at the moment, the Kazekage couldn't care about anything less, because he is watching and waiting for _them._

His patience is rewarded, at least partially, when at long last a figure with short, dirty blonde hair gathered into four separate ponytails breaks through the crowd, her stride firm and steady, easily dominating the space she passes through. Her movement is the same as always, perhaps a bit more self-assured if anything; a great deal of the tension in his shoulders dissolves as Gaara absorbs this information, and the slender redhead breathes a little easier.

He stares down at the approaching figure--she looks so small and fragile from this height, though nothing could be farther from the truth--and considers the events of the previous night.

Just hours ago they had been a part of him, and he had been closer to them than he'd ever been to anyone before, closer than anyone else in the entire world could ever be.

Because they shared his blood.

Because they had the same eyes—a different colour for each of them perhaps, but all equally soulless, all altogether lacking in conscience or empathy.

Because they smelled of sand and sweat, soap and sweet oil, the desert at night.

And because, just like him, they had only each other.

He watches her until she disappears into the crowd at the base of the building. A few moments later, the sound of brisk, even footfalls echoes down the corridor, heralding the approach of his older sister.

When she reaches the doorway, Gaara is still staring out one of the many circular porthole-like windows, presenting her with a perfect view of his back. She glances around his office, at the papers spread out across the desk and littering the floor, quick, sharp eyes taking in everything, every detail of the setting, every nuance of her younger brother's bearing, mindful of his delicate psyche.

"Looks like you've been busy," she snorts, stepping across the chaotic sea of white rectangles, moving towards him and leaving wrinkles and sandal marks in her wake.

She stops as he turns slowly to regard her, taking in the light sheen of perspiration on her face and the ever-present sand that dulls the black fabric of her yukata, as well as the hard edge to her facial expression, the distinctive defiance and characteristic brazenness. He can recognise remorse, and knows guilt when he sees it, and there is not a shred of either in the dark, shadowy blue eyes of the kunoichi standing before him now.

She is not sorry, he knows, is relieved to know. Not sorry at all.

"Where's Kankurou?" he asks finally, and Temari can hear the apprehension and uncertainty in his tone even though she can't see it on his face. She can hear the unspoken question—_Does he regret it?—_as well as the quiet plea for reassurance, and support.

"Border patrol. There was a report of unauthorised activity to the northeast." Brusque and dismissively matter-of-fact. No trace of emotion, no hints as to what her other brother might have been thinking; either she doesn't care, or she simply doesn't know. "He should be back tomorrow," she adds in a voice and with a smile that clearly insinuate _which means I have you all to myself tonight._

For the space of a dozen heartbeats or so, silence blankets the room. Gaara stares at her, impassive and inscrutable as always, but she doubtless knows what he's thinking. Older sisters tend to be perceptive that way, and Temari is more observant than most.

"Why."

"Why?" she repeats, turning her head a bit to look at him sideways and adding the interrogative tone the original question had lacked, though she introduces a hint of coquetry and the barest trace of scorn to the pronouncement of the word as well.

"Why doesn't this bother you." _It should,_ is the implication, the thinly-veiled undertone, and she understands what he wants.

He wants her to say something to prove to him that she doesn't regret what she's done, what she's doing, what_ they'll_ be doing. He wants verbal confirmation of the utter lack of repentance he can see in her eyes, can read in her stance.

But apparently Temari believes that actions speak louder than words. She leans in and presses her mouth to his, hard and forceful, just as she had the night before; her teeth tear at his lower lip, but of course he feels no pain. He returns the kiss, no more gentle than she, welcoming the bitter tang of blood that fills his mouth—hers, but since they share the same blood, his as well. As she pulls away, her breath whispers across his skin, hot as a desert breeze, and she licks some of the blood off her upper lip, then suddenly grins, revealing teeth outlined in bright scarlet—a genuine wolfish smile. She locks eyes with him again, dull muddy blue pools staring into equally flat, pale green, and slowly the grin fades. She sucks thoughtfully on her torn lower lip, her eyes hard and contemplative, studying, analysing; Gaara just looks at her, expressionless as ever, a hint of crimson smeared across his mouth and chin.

Finally she answers in words as well, simple and blunt and harsh as always:

"I never thought of you as my brother."


End file.
